


a different kind of danger in the daylight

by peachmaisie



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachmaisie/pseuds/peachmaisie
Summary: Without noticing the was even doing it, Matt's pacing evolved into something softer, lighter than he'd ever felt before. It wasn't so much dancing as it was floating, gentle turns and void of all the thirst for distraction. For an hour or so every Friday, when the church was home to those with the energy to make something of their voice, Matt could forget he was even searching for something; pretend that everything was how it should be.Matt had never been a particularly fluid person, whether it be in the way he spoke to the way he moved. Learning how to navigate the world as a blind person took effort, it meant relearning everything he had once knew and turning it upside down and on its head.His father's body language had slowly dripped down the family tree, nurturing the solid, imposing posture Matt began to hold the older he got. He had never taught Matt to be graceful, to be light on his feet but maybe disappearing gave his son what he needed, the right tool to learn how to move so softly it was like he wasn't moving at all.





	a different kind of danger in the daylight

There were some intimacies Matt was certain he'd never feel comfortable sharing with another person. The world around him seemed so content, perfectly capable of giving parts of themselves to friends, to family, to lovers; well, Matt had very few of any of those things. Even if he did, there was too high a level of guilt within him to do anything but drown. To give the good parts of himself would take something away, eventually, there would be nothing left but the nasty, caked in blood parts and no one deserved to be burdened with that.

As a young boy, Matt would pace around his room at the orphanage until someone came in and stopped him. It was better than just lying in bed, waiting for the dust to collect, it gave him something to do at least. As distractions went, it wasn't a particularly good one. The city was loud and constantly vibrating, a little too long focused on the conversation about a takeout order and he'd misplace where he was and fall to the ground with a thud.

Eventually though, as time tends to do, things started to heal and Matt found it easier to pace without tripping on his own feet. He had never been particularly graceful, following in his father's heavy footsteps, little regard for his surroundings. Once he learned the layout of his room well enough, it became easier to move around it without having to think. He could tell the right time to dodge around his bed, learned how to tiptoe around creaking floorboards on nights he couldn't sleep.

The church choir changed everything. Matt had, of course, heard parts here and there, though he spent so much time at the church already it had never really been something he searched out for. Before the accident, he had been a choir boy, learned enough piano to bullshit his way through a song but could barely carry a tune with his voice.

His sight was not the only thing torn away from him, a desire to do anything non-essential to living seemed to follow suit. Nothing had enjoyment anymore, he'd rather sit in the comfort of his room and try and seek a conversation with God than sit in the church where he would be expected by those who knew him to put on a brave face, as if he wasn't being brave every waking second.

Without noticing he was even doing it, Matt's pacing evolved into something softer, lighter than he'd ever felt before. It wasn't so much dancing as it was floating, gentle turns and void of all the thirst for distraction. For an hour or so every Friday, when the church was home to those with the energy to make something of their voice, Matt could forget he was even searching for something; pretend that everything was how it should be.

Matt had never been a particularly fluid person, whether it be in the way he spoke to the way he moved. Learning how to navigate the world as a blind person took effort, it meant relearning everything he had once knew and turning it upside down and on its head.

His father's body language had slowly dripped down the family tree, nurturing the solid, imposing posture Matt began to hold the older he got. He had never taught Matt to be graceful, to be light on his feet but maybe disappearing gave his son what he needed, the right tool to learn how to move so softly it was like he wasn't moving at all.

It was Sister Dora who suggested that perhaps, Matt might stop picking fights with the other kids if he had an outlet— one that was not violent but gave him something to rein in all his frustration. His studies were failing, always too in his head about things and willing to argue his way out or into any situation, something had to change. He had been too busy listening to the music to notice the heartbeat outside of his door, it was only when she walked in on Matt's dancing that she understood what to do.

Ballet wasn't exactly known for being the activity blind little Catholic boys gravitated towards, and to be fair, Matt didn't. He could only think of a few things worse than having to learn a whole new space, one where he could be partly himself but not ever the full story. Add in the factor of there being other people there, ones who would stare at him and whisper behind his back as he dare attempt a pirouette and Matt decided within a matter of seconds that this genius plan was in fact, a load of shit.

Besides, he didn't want anyone's help. He was fine, coping the best way he knew how which was to stifle his anger at everything and occasionally let it out in small, manageable bursts.

The things Matt wanted were rarely the things he got and a few weeks after the discovery, there was a woman in Matt's room insisting he got up out of bed. She wasn't another nun, smelt like artificial vanilla and spices, Indian takeout warm on her breath through the sharpness of mint toothpaste. Matt was used to the stern voices of the nuns who ran the orphanage but this was different, still strict but a softness underneath, an understanding.

Stick, as Matt was informed to call this woman, happened to also be blind. She also happened to be a dancer, had been ever since she was a little girl even with her blindness stemming from birth. They went out for ice cream the first day, she explained how with a space she recognized and her head screwed on right, dancing was easier than walking. Matt doubted her confidence but continued to stuff his face with the ice cream nonetheless.

There is only so much you can do to a wound that has been left to rot. You can attempt to clean it, save what's left of the tissue but once the damage is done, that's it. There was no amount of praying that was going to fill the void in Matt's chest, bring back his sight or his father but you can bandage the wound and move on, it's all you can do sometimes.

What helped was the reminder that dancing is a lot like fighting, especially when you're blind. It's about knowing your surroundings, being able to tell what your partner is going to do before they do it, without that then you're going to get hurt. Matt got a lot of twisted ankles the first few weeks, learning to stretch and position himself in certain ways was less than comfortable but it was a pain he liked, similar to fighting in more ways than one.

The lessons were hard. Retraining his body to move in a certain way was a little too similar to how he had to relearn living without sight, the two together created a muddy cocktail that curdled in Matt's stomach. He wondered what his dad would think of him, tucked away in a strange woman's basement which she'd renovated as a dance studio, he never wanted him to be a fighter and deep down Matt knew he wouldn't have been all that pleased to see him a dancer either. There was no winning, there was only living and doing what he had to do.

For years the lessons went on, twice a week and practice on the days in between. At first, it had been difficult to balance that with his studies and responsibilities in the church but it was an improvement from before when there days blended together, nothing distinguishing day from night.

Stick became something of a mentor, never getting too close in case Matt got irreversibly attached but there was a friendship there. The nuns at the orphanage had once felt like a makeshift replacement for the lack of parents in his life, after they made it clear that wasn't their role, Matt learned not to place his hopes on others. With his father dead and mother somewhere never to be seen again, he held his boundaries strong and solid like a wall. Stick may have gotten closer than most, than maybe anyone ever would again but she'd never see the full side of things.

By the time that Matt had left for college, dancing had become easier than walking, just like Stick had said all those years ago. It felt easier than breathing most days, he wondered whether or not that was why his father boxed till his bones broke, to feel alive.

It wasn't only ballet Matt had learned, there was a limit to what he had been capable of since most people start training their bodies when they're much younger but he pushed himself constantly. He'd had to learn to become more flexible, contorting his body in ways he didn't think were possible. His toes felt permanently broken, legs aching and ankles ready to snap like whisper thin twigs but they never did, he never let them.

There was still an ache to fight, Murdock blood and all, but Matt learned to push it to the side for the most part. As a kid he'd liked picking fights because it made him feel big, powerful even. The older he got the more he realized that he didn't want to feel those things, he didn't need to have power or attention and he especially didn't want pity, all he wanted was to feel free of the weight on his shoulders.

* * *

 

"Tonight's the night." Foggy had declared upon busting into their room, Marci Stahl's perfume clinging to his scarf which Matt got a whiff of when he pulled it off. Matt liked Foggy, as roommates went he couldn't have asked for a better one. He was friendly, treated him like any other guy and didn't get weirded out by the whole blind thing— he was his best friend. "You are coming out dancing, you've been putting it off for weeks and I'm done waiting."

Matt hadn't been purposefully putting it off, he was, in fact, busy with all the studying he'd planned to do but it was true, he didn't want to go out. Foggy wasn't the issue, he enjoyed their drunken nights out to bars and giggling to themselves while waiting for grease licked burgers but Foggy wanted to go to a club. Matt hated clubs.

Clubs meant loud music and too many heartbeats, alcohol and people dosed in cheap perfume, sex and the humming of lights and vibrations pounding through everything leaving Matt overly sensitive and fumbling in the dark. It was only the tip of the iceberg, taking in all of that plus everything going out outside of the club, it was overwhelming and Matt knew himself well enough to know it would lead to a meltdown. He had them more as a kid when his senses first kicked in and he wasn't eager to replicate the feeling again.

It would be easy enough to explain this to Foggy, maybe not the whole story but he was understanding, wouldn't make him feel bad for not going. That wasn't the issue, Matt would be the one to make himself feel bad for not going because he didn't want to let Foggy down. Somewhere along the way, he had shifted from the little boy who refused to do anything to the man who did everything in fear of being abandoned.

"This isn't another one of your attempts to hook me up with someone, is it?" Matt did his best not to let his face show that on the inside, he was cringing hard. For whatever reason, Foggy had gotten it in his head that Matt was some womanizing, sex fend who had a line of women waiting outside their room merely in the hopes that Matt might smile at one of them. Real life couldn't have been more different, Foggy didn't need to know that though.

"I get it, buddy. You don't want to be tied down, that's cool." The air shifted around Foggy as he put his hands up in defense, never censoring his motions just because Matt couldn't see them. "But everyone's thinks you've died. How long has it been since you went outside?"

Matt paused for a moment, Foggy's question stumping him. If by outside he meant out of their room then he'd left that morning a little after Foggy to go down to the common area, stretch his legs out a little and all that. If he meant outside into the fresh air of New York then, four days ago wasn't that bad, right?

"Your silence speaks wonders." Foggy piped up after a good twenty seconds of Matt debating in his head whether or not to tell the truth. Matt pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and listened in to Foggy sitting down on the edge of his bed, the creaky bedframe whining in disagreement.

"Clearly I'm not dead, Foggy," Matt said and Foggy scoffed in reply.

"Good, because one night out won't kill you. And it won't kill your future law career, Mr summa cum laude." Before he could respond, Foggy was up and making his way over to Matt's bed. He perched on the edge and Matt could smell Marci's perfume even stronger, mingled with car exhaust and sweat, coke, and vodka warming Foggy's breath from what Matt could assume was the pre-drinks he'd just been at.

The lecture Matt had been listening to sat paused on his phone, books lay splayed around him with his braille display somewhere beneath them. His bed was slowly falling part with the sheets clinging on to only one corner of his mattress, pillows had been thrown to the ground in order to make more room and Matt realized then and there that if he stayed in bed any longer, he was going to start collecting dust.

As much as Matt would have preferred to stay home, to not have his senses pulled in every direction till it became too much to take, a dull ache in his chest settled in at the thought of ever replicating how he felt all those years ago at the orphanage. It had taken so much effort to even pretend to be a functioning human being, it was even starting to feel natural and the thought of falling back to those heavy days of depression was enough to send him bolting upright.

"Alright, you wore me down." Matt declared and swung his legs over the side of his bed, his bare toes brushing against the coarse carpeting. Foggy gave a firm pat on his back before pulling himself up, already starting on what time he'd promised they'd be at the club for. Foggy's study group were bigger partiers than Matt had expected, the first time he met them in person though the smell of marijuana clung to their clothes like a child to their mother's chest so his assumptions weren't always correct.

"Only you would take the joy of hot girls and free drinks and make it feel like a chore, I should have expected that from you, Murdock."

Matt simply cocked an eyebrow as he started to navigate around their room, one hand in front of him so that he didn't bump into anything. Foggy wasn't clued in on Matt's senses and he wanted to keep it that way, there was a comfort in not having to use them as much, sometimes it felt nice to just not play blind but not play sighted either. It was confusing to explain, it had taken years to understand it fully himself.

"We've all got to have a hobby, Foggy."

* * *

The club, as expected, was a sensory nightmare.

Matt had a lot of those growing up, nightmares. Sometimes in his dreams, he'd forget that he was blind, information getting handled wrong and all that. He'd wake up in a cold sweat and it would be like waking up in that hospital all again, bandages tight around his eyes and a dread creeping up his chest till he was choking on it.

Losing Foggy in the crowd would be too easy, if he got distracted for a second and Foggy wandered off that would be it. There were too many heartbeats, each individual person a combination of smells and tastes and textures that muddled together into some big terrifying mess Matt couldn't handle alone. Finding Foggy again would be impossible, even if he didn't care about masking his surprisingly accurate honing skills. The only way he knew to combat these fears was to cling to the crook of Foggy's arm, cane held tightly in one hand as to not hit all the people around him dancing.

He couldn't concentrate on the lyrics of the song playing when the vibrations from the speakers felt like they were rattling his skull, trying to shake some coins loose. Matt being Matt though, he wasn't about to let Foggy know he felt like he was drowning. Unless he was actually convinced he was about to die then he'd continue to play up his enjoyment of being there with him, even then, if he was going to die he still might not have said anything.

"This way!" Foggy leaned in close, breath warm on Matt's neck before heading towards the bar. With little choice, Matt tightened his grip and followed alongside him. It was easier to be there with Foggy, with something to focus on and ground him. It didn't make it any less painful but it made him want to try and cope better, pretend to be having a good time even if it wasn't the case.

Foggy's friends were loud and chatty, with bubbling laughs and hands they didn't like keeping to themselves. It easier to be around them once the alcohol started flowing, fruity and overly packed with sugar seemed to be the college way. Matt struggled with the shots, his fingertips felt sticky with cream after someone with the confidence of Archimedes suggested doing blowjobs— turns out, being blind spares you the embarrassment of taking part of the blowjob shot tradition of shooting it without your hands.

The more alcohol in Matt's system, the easier it was to relax. That was true of most people but for him specifically, his senses began to dull. It had taken some adjusting, the less focused and harsh his senses were the more dependent he became and that, now that fear was enough to sober him up immediately. However with Foggy's help and the pushing of more drinks, Matt had learned how to chill the hell out and have some fun, that pretty much everyone needed help when they got hammered and it didn't make him weak or needy

"Excuse me, blind Matt Murdock coming through!" Foggy yelled at the group of people blocking the way to the bathroom before guiding a giggling Matt in that general direction. The sound of Matt's cane on the floor was barely audible, it caught on a few people's feet as he swept the floor but better that than him walking face first into some strangers business. "I'll be there in a second, buddy!"

In comparison to the main area of the club, the bathroom was a cold slap to the face. The smell of bleach barely disguised the vomit that had been cleaned up maybe a few hours or so ago, cheap cologne and sweat heavied the air and Matt pushed through it to get to the bathroom stall. The door whined on rusty hinges as he pushed it open, a woman's perfume lingering enough for him to know what had taken place however long ago.

There were plenty of heartbeats dulled through the door and Matt couldn't distinguish which one was Foggy's, instead of attempting to he simply rested his head against the cool metal of the bathroom stall and closed his eyes. His lack of sight had no effect on the dizziness that occurred, his world was a rollercoaster to which he had his eyes closed on but boy did everything continue to spin.

Foggy pushed the bathroom door open as he continued to talk to one of his friends, the conversation apparently too important to pause for even a few minutes. As he held the door open, the rest of the world sharpened and suddenly Matt was listening in on stranger's conversations and their fizzing insides; as strange as it sounded. A bunch of hormonal teens drinking away college nerves, all touching one another and swaying along with the music.

"Mezcal, if you have it."

Matt's head turned towards the bathroom door, in the direction of the stranger's voice. He had heard thousands of voices scattered across the cities, listened to things he wished he could forget and yet never before had he been taken so off guard by a voice. It was smooth like melted chocolate, her accent difficult to place but so breathtaking to hear. This was as close to love at first sight as Matt could ever get, his world softened by the lullaby of another's words.

It was as he tried to focus on the woman that Foggy finally let his conversation go and walked into the bathroom, the door swinging closed with a thump. Matt let out a soft hum of disappointment before dropping his head back against the stall wall. The uneasy feeling in his stomach had settled down and a new feeling had replaced it, cacoons shifting with butterflies trying to wiggle out.

After an eternity or a minute had passed by, Matt pulled himself away from the wall when he heard Foggy leave the stall next to him. He considered briefly just pretending he had fallen asleep and hoping that he'd be allowed to take a break from the constant conversation and stomach curdling drinks. Before he could think any deeper into it, Foggy banged on the door and his plan came tumbling down around him.

Stumbling back out into the club, one hand around Foggy's arm and the other holding his cane, Matt tried to locate the owner of the voice that caught his attention. There was too much going on to really focus so he let himself be guided back to where Foggy's friends were congregated, new drinks were handed on and the night carried on.

"Tell me about the girls at the bar."

"The ones that are specifically your type?" Foggy asked knowingly, Matt's type in women burnt into his brain. He liked the kind of girls that no one in their right mind should ever have the confidence to talk to, looks obviously weren't important but an air of intimidation was key. If Foggy knew that he'd have no chance with this girl in a million years, then Matt would already be over there giving it his best shot.

Matt merely raised his eyebrows over his drink before listening to Foggy's descriptions, a hobby of his he had learned to really enjoy over the years.

Their bartender was a redhead, not naturally when you considered the blonde roots coming in but still cute. Matt thought back to before he lost his sight, back to when he was in school and he sat behind Emma Padilla, her red hair cascading in long soft ringlets down the length of her back. Sometimes, Matt would forget he was even in class, too distracted by the sunlight catching through her hair until she was glowing like an angel.

"Then there's- oh crap." Foggy's heart started to beat a little faster, a swallow caught in his throat. He didn't sound nervous or scared, exasperated maybe? Before Matt could ask what was wrong, Foggy was talking again. "Far right, at the end of the bar. You're gonna wish you had your eyes for this one, buddy."

With a general direction to focus on now, Matt tried to pick out whoever Foggy was talking about while also listening in on his description. There was still too much to sort through, the smell of pollution and fast food oil, perfume and sweat, and fake leather, the list could go on. It wasn't only his smell, the taste of the alcohol not in his cup danced on his taste buds, bitter and sharp like paint thinner.

"Hot enough to be a drunken hallucination, actually I'm pretty sure she is. Dark hair and dark eyes, did I mention she's hot? Too hot to be skulking around here, she might be a spy." It wasn't the best picture Foggy had ever painted but Matt got the gist, especially since he had managed to pinpoint who he was talking about.

Her shoulders were bare, hair long enough to brush against them when she tilted her head back to take a sip of her Mezcal. It wasn't the sort of drink he'd go for but it tasted significantly sweeter from her lips, mixed in with the artificial strawberry flavoring from what he assumed to be her lipstick. It was after realizing Foggy's heartbeat had sped up that Matt noticed that so had a few others, he couldn't tell for sure but he had a pretty could inclination of why.

"Is she alone?" Matt asked, knowing she was.

"You gonna try and scoop her up? You're a braver man than I'll ever be." Foggy downed the rest of his sugary drink with a grimace before patting Matt on the back. "Yeah, she's alone. Now if you don't mind, I'm finally going to go dance. Come join me when you get rejected." And like that, he was out of his seat and following a few friends over to the dance floor, leaving Matt alone like he was afraid to be when they'd first entered.

Only he wasn't afraid anymore, instead, he was filled with giddy excitement, mostly from the alcohol but partly from the anticipation of meeting this woman's acquaintance. He liked the dance, so to speak. The first meeting had always been the most interesting part for Matt, being introduced to the details of another person before they became like clockwork, expected and boring almost.

By the time that Matt had maneuvered his way around the curved bar, he was almost certain that this woman was looking at him. There was no real way for him to confirm it but by the bated breath she held and the steady thumping of her heart as his cane came in contact with the chair next to hers, indicating no surprise or anything of the sort, it was a fair assumption to make.

"Oh— Is anyone sitting here?" Matt asked after brushing shoulders with the woman, his spare hand laying over the cold seat of the chair beside her. With so much information already being processed, there wasn't a lot he could feel out apart from what he'd already sensed and been told by Foggy. Now he was closer he could taste the lipstick smeared on her glass, feel the small exhale of air she breathed out while he assumed she was glancing him up and down.

"It's all yours." The voice from before said and Matt practically melted into the seat, making sure to make a show of feeling out for the bar counter so he didn't bump against it. Her voice was even sweeter up close, not a particularly warm voice but interesting, being any close didn't help distinguish her accent but Matt liked that, the mystery of it all.

"Thanks." Matt breathed out before giving his best smile, the one he'd been told made the corners of his eyes crinkle. The woman's heartbeat didn't falter, not even for a second. It remained steady, a drum beat unwilling to change for anything. "Can I order you a drink?"

"I can order my own." She replied, only leaving a second or so between her reply and before motioning over the bartender, the redhead from before. "Another Mezcal," she paused and looked over to Matt in all his dopey, red-cheeked glory, "and he'll have one too."

Matt said nothing and found himself focusing on his own heartbeat for once, the way it had sped up in his chest like it was preparing to break through his ribcage. The way her mouth curved around each syllable, neatly fitting around each word with a smoothness akin to rich honey, there was nothing he wanted more than to keep her speaking. He had never been the one to talk endlessly, especially when there was so little he wanted to share but with her, even with only a few words shared, Matt knew he needed to hear everything.

"A tequila fan?" He inquired simply, shortening his cane until he could lay it down on the counter, beside where his drink was soon placed. A small hum of agreement came from her lips, taking a small sip of her drink before speaking again, the alcohol sticky on her voice.

"What makes you say that?" Her tone was dry, not annoyed by his company but maybe bored, like how Matt had found himself multiple times before. He let out a small chuckle before reaching out for his drink, fumbling for the glass a few times before finally coming in contact with it. The paint thinner smell had not been a lie, the rest of the drinks he'd downed before helped numb the battery acid type ache spread across his tongue but even then, he didn't let his distaste show on his face.

"Call it a lucky guess," Matt replied in a similar tone, a little less boredom than she was allowing to shine through. He continued to cradle his glass in his hand, cold against the blushing sauna that was his skin. "I'm Matt." He said purely to get her name in return, plenty of them running around his head begging to be the right choice.

She loved her pauses, savored each second that passed by with breaths held in anticipation. Matt waited as patiently as he could for the alcohol to pass by her lips, pictured the vague idea he had of her bathed in neon lights, flashing blue then crimson, everything still vibrating and painfully loud but too enthralled with the company to let it hurt.

"Elektra." For a second, Matt wondered if she was telling the truth. She didn't sound certain, but her heart showed no sign of insincerity, yet another mystery to find the answer to. Matt gave another smile before taking another sip of his drink, as he did, Elektra chose to speak again. "Your friends, they keep looking to you. I think they want you to go dance."

"Yeah, that sounds like them." Matt breathed out a laugh. "I'm not much of a dancer." That seemed to amuse her at least, he heard her chuckle albeit briefly. He pictured a mouth in red, glossy and strawberry flavored, far more intoxicating than anything they could drink at the bar.

"Are you not?" Elektra asked and turned herself to face Matt, the material of her skirt or dress gliding like water across her bare thighs. Matt's mouth twitched before he smiled and gave his best coy shrug, tracing his finger around the rim of his glass.

"The blind thing doesn't exactly help." It wasn't technically a lie.

Elektra smiled again, teeth sharp and bared. She slid her now empty glass onto the counter before reaching over to Matt's, cupped in the warmth of his hand. Her fingertips brushed against his knuckles as she slid the glass from his hands and then proceeded to down whatever was left.

"Well then, do you think they'll mind if we leave?" Matt swallowed and shook his head before he could actually consider her request. Foggy would be fine by himself, especially since he wasn't going to be alone. This was what he'd wanted for Matt, after all, to live and all that. He had only known Elektra for mere minutes and he already felt more alive than he had done in months, her voice his church choir, keeping him company in the dark.

* * *

Matt thought he was big at keeping secrets but Elektra had so many of her own that it made him appear honest. The difference between them? She didn't cradle them tight to her chest as Matt did, she let them fly like cupped doves when the time was right. All he had to do was ask, and she'd give him what he needed to hear.

He was so used to playing up his blindness, or rather playing down his senses. There were plenty of things that even his senses couldn't tell him, those things weren't a lie but the searching hands and straight look in the face of deception, it was all an act. With Elektra though, after a few weeks, he started to forget that he had to do those things if he wanted to keep his secrets his own.

Part of him wondered if she somehow knew already, if their meeting was fated and God had specifically put her in his path with all the knowledge she needed. He soon came to the conclusion that it wasn't the case, her choices were all her own and they'd still come together, and that made it so much better.

When he did come to tell her, it was his decision. There were no factors at play apart from a desire to share. It had never been easy or comfortable, god forbid it to be something that made him feel good but it wasn't scary anymore. Elektra with all her fanciful lifestyle and mysterious past brought with her a sense of unexpected comfort, it might not have been love so early on but it was warmth, it kept Matt safe.

"So... you aren't blind?" Elektra's tone was accusing or upset, maybe confused more than anything. Matt had made an art of reading people's voices since he couldn't read their faces, there is more to words than just themselves after all.

"It's more complicated than that." It wasn't that he'd expected her to understand right away, he didn't expect that of anyone but there was a nervousness that sat in his stomach at having to air all his dirty laundry so to speak. It was a series of events, one tragedy after another that had led him to be the person that Elektra had become fond of— is there anything more terrifying than becoming the thing you wished you'd never be?

Then came the explanation. The accident, his father's death, Matt had relived the stories thousands of times over in his head so they hurt significantly less than they once had but the ache was still there. When it came to talking about Stick though, her masterful ways of bringing him back to the land of the living, his throat seemed to tighten like a snake around a mouse, not letting the words out no matter how much he wanted to.

When he did finally explain about his senses, the church choir, how he'd been taught to take in all the constant information and in turn been given an outlet to work on his skills, something to focus on other than all the stimuli the city gave off— Elektra was quiet.

"Do you still practice?" She then said after what felt like a forever of silence for Matt but was actually only a few seconds. Matt heard her leather couch squeak beneath her as she got comfortable, still not finished with the stories he had to tell. At least she hadn't run, hadn't abandoned him like he'd expected people to his whole life.

"Not as often as I used to...there's not enough time." Matt hadn't expected Elektra to focus on the ballet side of his explanation but at least it was a quicker discussion. His face furrowed, eyebrows knitting together. "Why?"

"Ballet, every Tuesday for years, my father insisted on it." Elektra allowed for no pauses this time as if she knew Matt's heart could not stand another. He wondered what it was like to share so easily, whether or not there was a battle going on inside of her head at giving something personal to him that if he wanted, he could find some way to use against her. "Muay Thai as well, Thursdays. Also at his demand."

His theory about God started to feel pretty logical again.

"Oh," Matt said simply, unsure of what else he could say. He'd built up the confession so much in his head that the reality was under climatic, that wasn't a complaint so much as it was something he had to ponder. Still, the anxiety had grown like water pressing against a cracked dam and now Matt didn't know what to do with all this pressure he'd cultivated.

She might not have been able to understand everything, but there were parts she could. That had never been what Matt was searching for, always too in his head about trying to cope and distract for himself but maybe this was what he needed. Maybe that was why all those years ago with Stick things started to change, maybe dance wasn't the outlet he needed but rather people, someone he could be himself with. Perhaps ballet had just been the way he learned how to do it, stretching and contorting into someone who didn't hate what he'd become, learning to at least like himself a little so someone else could one day.

"You'll have to show me one day." With that, Elektra stood up from the couch and made her way over to where Matt was standing, hands nervously clasped in front of him with a slight tremble. She ran her hand slowly across his side, over the small dip in his waist, all warm and solid beneath the soft material of his shirt. "Whenever you're ready, Matthew." And like that, she was gone, heading out to her bedroom where she knew Matt would follow her.

And would, he'd follow her anywhere. At first it had been only her voice that enchanted him but now it was everything: the way she seemed to float around any space she was in, the way she smelt and the way she tasted, not to forget how her skin felt like the silk sheets Matt had desperately been wishing for since he'd first felt them. Her way with language, her dry humor mixed with effortless affectionate. Matt did have to wonder if Foggy was right and she maybe was some hallucination, far too good to ever be true.

* * *

"Keep an ear out for the police?" Elektra said with the conviction of someone who really didn't care about being caught by the police. Her hands were nimble, rough with callouses yet the softest hands he'd ever been touched with. She picked the lock easily, had debated just breaking the door down but Matt put his foot down, he was already nervous about the prospects of breaking and entering, he didn't want to do any more damage than necessary.

"With you around? Always." Following her inside, Matt listened to how his voice echoed around the empty space, the hall empty and waiting to be filled. The smell of old wood, dirt, and dust brought in from outside, the pipes above them creaked and the lights groaned as they flickered on. He knew that this was a bad idea, Elektra was filled with those yet they always seemed to end well, he had to have faith.

It was a Friday night, the city was quieter than usual and Elektra had the so-called brilliant of breaking into the dance studio located not too far from Columbia University because that was exactly what normal people did with their free time.

This wasn't the first time that they'd broken in somewhere, not that it was a habit or anything but what was a couple of fun-loving teens to do? As exhilarating as breaking into his church to steal some wine had been, Matt was glad they weren't doing that again. There was only so much his poor Catholic heart could take, this was at least a sin he could handle.

The floorboards creaked as they walked, the wood overused and whining. The smell of sweat lingered from the classes earlier on in the day, thick and bitter on Matt's tongue as he licked his lower lip in preparation for the bite. He knew what was coming, there was no other reason for Elektra taking him here and the once cocooned butterflies flew wild in his stomach, their wings batting against his insides, desperate to get out.

"Well, now what?" He asked.

Elektra hummed in response, too busy looking around to be paying her attention in his direction. She knew what she was looking for, had been in so many lessons of her own to know the essentials.

"The bars are ahead of you, you'll probably want to stretch." With that, Elektra walked out of one of the doors leading out into the hallway and left Matt alone. The wide space suddenly felt too big, leaving him a stranded passenger in the middle of the ocean, nothing yet everything for miles and miles. Doing what he did best, Matt swallowed his anxieties and instead followed Elektra's instructions.

With Elektra's heartbeats a few rooms away, Matt took the opportunity to start stretching. It felt strange, for the first few weeks of college he had managed to sneak out a few times to practice, paying a local gym for the space even if only for an hour or so after closing. He only got it after they realized he was Jack Murdock's son, assumed his request had something to do with that. Eventually though the time ran away from him, he was too busy with classes and trying to keep the first genuine friendship he'd had in years that his ballet practice became less and less important.

His fingers brushed his toes, back and legs stretching with a familiar ache. Matt had always liked that, the parts that hurt. It meant he was doing something right, his body might have been protesting but it meant he was close to success, to be doing something beautiful. Beauty didn't mean much to Matt when he couldn't admire it but it meant something to others, who wouldn't want to be beautiful?

"So _that's_ why you're so flexible." Elektra returned with a radio in hand a few minutes later, her eyes, however, were glued to Matt with his leg up on the bars, his foot pointed perfectly out. He looked elegant, his posture straight with his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a thin sliver of pale skin. A small smile came across his otherwise expressionless face, his eyes were closed and remained so as he switched out his legs.

"Sure that's the reason." He didn't need sight to know Elektra was smiling, she did so with her whole body. It lit up any space she was in, almost bright enough for even him to see. Matt let his head lull back as he listened in on his body, not even in on his insides but rather what it was telling him. The stretch didn't feel new but not exactly welcomed home either, if he'd had known Elektra's plans then maybe he would have prepared a few days before. "You know I have nothing planned, right?"

"You'll come up with something." Elektra's confidence while encouraging did feel misplaced, Matt had no idea what he was going to do but that was a preferable thing to worry about than the act of actually dancing for Elektra. Once off of the bar, Matt picked up his shoes and tossed them in Elektra's general direction. He didn't need anything getting in his way, the last thing he wanted was to trip and fall flat on his face, leave his blood for some poor person to find when they arrived the next morning.

The stretches continued, most of it was muscle memory from when Matt was a kid but it felt strange doing it all in front of Elektra. This was one of the intimacies he had been so scared to share and here he was, loosening up his hips and preparing his ankles for the strain to come and it felt weird but in a good kind of way. It felt different, maybe even better because it was all for someone he cared about.

Before Matt could say anything, Elektra had pressed play on the radio and the CD inside started to whirl, generic piano filled the hall and Matt's stomach clenched. With his knuckles turning white with how hard he was clutching the bars, he waited for Elektra to sit down, she decided to perch herself down beside the entrance. His heart was only barely beating faster than hers, his nerves just a little more powerful than her excitement.

Breathing became something he'd only known how to do before now, a mere memory but that was okay— dancing felt more like first nature anyways.

Coming up with a routine on the fly wasn't easy, each position he slipped into and rotation he turned in came from some part of his brain he didn't know about, almost like he slipped into a totally different person when he danced. He started off slow, doing his best with his lack of soft sole shoes and general plan.

The music bouncing echoing off from the walls helped give Matt a general idea of the space he was working with so that when he started with bigger moves, a traveling turn into a piqué, he didn't twirl right into a wall. There was only so much he could manage, his feet able to bend just enough to turn on his toes but it wasn't a great feeling, memories of ice packs and frozen bags of peas returned as he did one turn after the other.

He thought about his father in the ring as he slowly slipped into first arabesque, his body contorting and stretching as he slowly kicked his leg out, his foot arched high and arm out searching for something. That bloody ache, constantly dodging and weaving, Matt lowered himself back down before moving again. His movements lurking somewhere between professionally taught gracefulness and a college kid's decision-making skills, meaning it was by no means the greatest performance ever given but clearly he had started from somewhere.

Pulling from lessons and dances he was taught as a child, Matt traveled through various positions. Whether it be his entrechat or his once perfected plié, Matt did what felt right, not necessarily what would impress Elektra because, at the moment, he didn't care about that. Ballet wasn't about the audience for him, it never had been. It had always been something that he'd performed for himself, even now in front of his woman he'd come to adore.

For her whole life, Elektra had been taught how to critique, to be able to point out the flaws in her work as well as others. When her punch wasn't strong enough or her foot wasn't pointed enough, she learned to take the criticism and turn it into something useful, something that didn't make her feel like a failure.  
  
As she watched Matt, all the points she knew she'd give to anyone else seemed to melt away. She could find nothing to fault him, it was perfect. He was perfect. She'd been breathless many a time before but never like this, never to the point where she was convinced she didn't even need air anymore. All she needed was to keep her eyes on him, that was enough to keep her alive.

She'd always been taught to smile, polite and pretty in comparison to the teeth bared she showed whilst fighting but Matt didn't smile. He kept his head up, round nose pointed towards the ceiling but no smile, he might have been performing for her but not actually, there was something about that Elektra liked.

Suddenly, it was like he was back in the orphanage as he caught sound of the choir once again. It was faint, almost too far for his hearing to pick up but it was still there. Halfway through a glissade, Matt stumbled and lost his balance. Quick as she always was, before he had a chance to try and continue on despite his fumble, Elektra was up off the ground and had turned off the music.

"I—I'm sorry." He didn't even really know what he was apologizing for, it felt like the right thing to do. Because of embarrassment? Shame? Whatever the reason, it curled tight around Matt's throat and he simply stood there, a human turned to stone.

Elektra's hair swayed as she walked over to him, the hall suddenly so quiet and empty apart from her gentle footsteps echoing. By the time she was in front of Matt she noticed his shaking, some heady mix of adrenaline and nerves, memories once tucked to the back of the brain now at the forefront.

"Show me." She wrapped her hand around Matt's, a couple of seconds passed by before he curled his fingers around the thumb pressing into his palm. He didn't need to ask what she meant, it was clear as day between the two of them and that was all that mattered.

As slowly as he had first started all those years ago, Matt started to move, float rather. His steps were wide and airy, a less strict waltz almost. Elektra followed in his leisurely footsteps, letting herself be taken in whatever direction Matt chose like flower petals in the wind. She couldn't hear the choir but she knew it was there, ringing in Matt's ears, it had kept him safe all these years, waiting till she could take over.

She was there now, to be a melody or lullaby or whatever Matt needed. And in turn, he was the same for her. Never had someone surprised her so very much, the most beautiful way of being proved wrong. The unexpected had always interested her, been the one thing she craved more than anything and Matt gave that with a comfort she'd never felt before. Elektra had lived in sharp edges her entire life, maybe a soft place to lay her head wouldn't be the end of the world.

They continued to glide around the room, Matt's hand finding its way to Elektra's hip as she wrapped hers around the back of his neck. The choir played on in Matt's head but nothing, nothing at all could be holier than what was in front of him, nothing would ever be that precious again.

**Author's Note:**

> did i turn stick into a woman? yes, not because boys cant be ballerinas because clearly this story showed the opposite but because i hate stick and for whatever reason, making her a lady makes me hate her a little less. also, my knowledge of ballet is slim, i did take it for three years when i was a little girl but that was many moons ago and i can only remember so much stuff, you know. if the terms i used make no sense, just let me live in ignorance thank you.
> 
> also yes. a blowjob shot is a real thing, please do not die attempting to drink it without your hands. be responsible with your alcohol folks.
> 
> oh, and let me know if you want to see elektra and matt's adventure in breaking into the church. i actually started writing that fic before this and boy oh boy, it's a doozy.
> 
> check me out on tumblr at ["maggiemurdock"](http://maggiemurdock.tumblr.com/) and on [ patreon](https://www.patreon.com/peachmaisie) !!


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